


Competency

by pineaberry



Series: Work Ethics [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: #definitelyhappened, Character Study, Gen, Humor, In which Malavai learns that hitting something relieves stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 21:26:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14246091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineaberry/pseuds/pineaberry
Summary: War is hell, and there are somethings that have to be suffered for the sake of the Empire. Malavai knew this well, he just never expected that something to be someone.





	Competency

_Efficiency is doing more with less._

_Productivity is doing more with the same._

_Competency is doing a job properly_

 

* * *

 

It was dark in the box.

Dark and stuffy and cramped…

Doc would give his accomodations a zero out of ten. In the blinding darkness it took him twice as it normally would have to slip out of his handcuffs. Even then, he had a hard time finding a comfortable position to wait out the siege. Any other time he would loudly demand to be let out, but the muffled sounds of battle and inhuman screeching kept him from making any noise. Colicoids were nasty, not-so-little beasts that had a habit of devouring their prey alive. He’d seen enough of their leftovers to know he didn’t want to encounter them, especially if human flesh was on the menu.

If he had to die, he insisted on leaving a pretty corpse dammit!

As the minutes ticked by, he felt the air grow heavier. Apprehension filtered through his thoughts and he wondered if Lt. Quinn had forgotten about him, or worse, purposely left him to suffocate. He didn’t seem the type to be petty, but Imperials were known to be bastards first and foremost. Eventually the sounds of battle grew fainter but he worried it may just be his own brain shutting off. Just when he began to think the box was going to be his tomb, the lock clunked loudly and the lid opened. He popped up like a jack in the box and immediately regretted it when his legs began to sting.

“I’m blind! And now my legs are useless! You left me in there so long, I think I’m crippled for life!” he exclaimed dramatically.

The lieutenant remained stoic as ever while Doc took exaggerated gasps of air and complained about how inconvenient it was for his legs to fall asleep. Quinn was annoyed to see his prisoner had slipped out of his cuffs, though he couldn’t say he was entirely surprised.

“If you’re quite done making a scene, get out. We need the crate for sharp box disposal.”

Doc blinked away the glare and he noticed the hangar was now filled with rows of impromptu medical beds. Of course, with the battle now coming to an end, there had to be a place to tend the wounded close to the city gates. He gingerly stepped out of the crate and was immediately seized by a large imperial paratrooper.

Quinn seemed to be absorbed in his datapad and only briefly looked up to issue a command. “Put him in the livestock quarantine cage, and search him before you do. He’s slipped his restraints more than once in the last 12 hours.”

“I love you too, honey,” Doc drawled in response as he inwardly cursed the man. The medic was rewarded by a glimpse of Quinn clenching his jaw as he pretended to ignore him.

The quarantine pen was marginally better than the crate. There was certainly plenty of oxygen and room to move, unfortunately it reeked of the dewback that had recently inhabited it. Perhaps even more galling was the fact that he’d lost his key to freedom the moment the paratrooper gave him a pat down.

“In my defense, these are Quinn’s clothes. Those lock picks aren't mine. I'm holding them for him! I've been framed, so if you think about it, I'm the victim here!” he protested as he was unceremoniously shoved into the pen.

He stumbled and grabbed a hold of the heavy durasteel bars before slumping against them. Things were certainly looking grim. However, Quinn hadn't flat out killed him which meant be was more patient than he let on, or Doc’s intel was just that important. Cornered at last, he resigned himself to observing the going ons at the other end of the hangar. It had to be well past midnight or close to it. Perhaps he’d just try to get some shuteye.

“Remind me again why Coruscant was so unbearable?” he muttered to himself.

The skirmishes were still going on but -if the reports were correct- the colicoid swarm was slowly being pushed back towards Gorinth Canyon. Once cornered, they would be wiped out by the Empire’s perimeter turrets mounted on the canyon walls. Malavai scowled as he made a note on his schedule to look into why the perimeter defenses had failed to begin with. Hopefully he could volunteer his expertise towards the initial inquiry.

A bone-deep weariness beginning to overwhelm his senses, but he pushed past it. As the only officer present with any medical training, the brunt of the work would fall to him. He didn’t have the luxury of sleep.

_“You can rest when you’re dead and buried.”_

Nothing like his father’s words of encouragement to spur him into action.

As though reading his mind, an encrypted message popped up in his secured inbox. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before opening a secure channel.

In between juggling a prisoner, coordinating a rendezvous mission, and manning an emergency hospital, he still had to prepare for Darth Baras’ apprentice. Per the message, his scouts had managed to infiltrate deep into enemy territory to take a structural scan of the satellite tower. Perfect. He couldn’t ask for a better picture. Now there was only the matter of calculating the proper explosive charge to effectively disable the tower without taking out half the canyon with it. Quinn doubted he could get his hands on proper regulation explosive packs, so he began calibrating formulas using a raw detonite module. The bulk of the explosives would be three times heavier than ideal, but lugging that volatile pack would be the apprentice’s problem. After all, there was only so much Malavai could be expected to spoon-feed a novice.

He’d dealt with Baras’ acolytes exactly twice over the years. The Sith were all the same. Haughty, arrogant, self-serving, dismissive…

 _As is their birthright_.

It was the natural order of things to accept a Sith’s superiority and it became second nature to give them all a healthy dose of respect. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a smug satisfaction when he recalled how both acolytes had come to an abrupt end.

The first had been a large, imposing Miralukan who took Quinn’s intel and made a show of tossing it in the waste bin. He had a habit of trying to intimidate him by removing his mask and showing his gruesomely scarred eye sockets. It didn’t work. Quinn found Miralukan physiognomy repulsive even without the obligatory Sith mutilations but he was first and foremost a professional. He would serve regardless of how off-putting his CO may be.

This same mental juggernaut later decided that picking a fight with a troop of malfunctioning droids atop a scrap heap was a brilliant idea. The predictable result was a uniquely bloody dismemberment. Ensigns on litter detail were still finding bits of ‘Darth Juicy’ all over the dump.

Darth Baras had been displeased, though his anger had been mostly directed at the acolyte for having the audacity to die without permission. Apparently, breaking and keeping a Miralukan acolyte was all the rage among the Sith, and Baras was not looking forward to having to search for another status symbol.

On a purely academic note, Quinn wondered if Miralukan force vision had simply been unsuitable for spotting armed droids amidst piles of slag. He’d later analyze his theories on the subject in an article for the Imperial Medical Journal which he published under a pseudonym. The article was still being discussed although Quinn found himself annoyed that the conversations skewed towards Humanistic biases instead of objective analysis.

The second acolyte had been a wiry, crimson Twi’lek with tattoo-riddled lekku and teeth had been purposely sharpened to a point. Quinn soon found out that the man had developed a love for monologuing that bordered on the inane. The lieutenant had wondered if the Sith’s disposition was an attempt to compensate for his short stature or his unfortunate species of origin.

Whatever his reasons, the alien took a particular delight in forcing him to scrape and bow. While on their assigned mission, he ordered the lieutenant to remain silent unless spoken to all the while addressing him by ‘slave’ or ‘worm’ as though it were his given title. The rule of silence was strictly enforced and Quinn soon found himself being backhanded for speaking out of turn while alerting him of danger.

He would be lying if he said it didn’t affect his performance. In spite of Drukenwell, or perhaps because of it, Quinn could not withstand unwarranted humiliation for long. Though he would never do anything to endanger the mission, he found himself increasingly irritated by the degrading treatment and his own helplessness. The dark feelings culminated when Quinn passively observed as the Twi’lek was attacked and consequently trampled to death by a gigantic Bormu. He later apologized to the mangled corpse as it was being picked over by two zeldrakes.

_I would have warned you about Grandfather, my lord, but I did not wish to speak out of turn._

Regardless of the sudden but inevitable lethal case of death that befell the acolyte, Quinn ensured the mission ended in success. Baras had been genuinely surprised at his fierce acolyte’s anticlimactic end. When pressed for an explanation, Quinn demurred.

_It was all quite sudden. Something about the color red just sets the beasts off._

Darth Baras had stared at him for a moment as though attempting to decipher whether his underling was purposely trying to be funny before apparently letting the matter drop. Were he a more trusting man, Quinn would have believed that was the end of it. Unfortunately, he was not that stupid. Two acolytes with unpleasant dispositions had been swallowed up by Balmorra while Quinn had managed to survive unscathed. His loyalty had not been called into question but the Imperial wouldn’t be surprised if Darth Baras kept a closer eye on him after that. As though he needed another source of anxiety.

A few weeks later, Quinn published his experiences in an article titled ‘The Psychological Role of Species in Civilized Society’. The article asserted that social stigma caused inferiority complexes in non-human aliens thus hindering their effectiveness in roles that were historically considered to be above their station. Once more the Humanists skewed his findings but even the Progressives had difficulty disputing Quinn’s assessment.

Academic bickering aside, this time around his Master was sending an fully fledged apprentice -not just a mere acolyte- to Balmorra. If he was anything remotely like the other two Sith, Quinn was about to have a very stressful time of it. His only consolation was the fact that he would not be required to accompany Darth Baras’ apprentice anywhere. If he kept his head down, he could point the Sith towards their solo-mission and get on with his day.

_Would that I’d be so lucky._

Quinn re-encrypted his intel files before storing them in his datapad. He issued new orders and sent his scouts to deploy monitoring probes along the canyon walls. Should the apprentice fail or succeed, Quinn wanted to be the first to know. If Balmorra swallowed up another of Darth Baras’ underlings, at least Quinn could have proof it was not due to sabotage on his part.

Darth Baras was notoriously progressive for a Sith and it made him wonder what manner of creature his apprentice would be. Perhaps another Miralukan, or Twi’lek, or a Cathar, or hell, something with tentacles like a Nautolan. Either way, a mission so deep into enemy territory seemed destined to leave a Sith-shaped smear on the canyon walls. Perhaps Balmorra was becoming a test for new Sith, or a convenient way to dispose of them.

His attention returned to the present as the first of the wounded began coming in and he grimly noted how some of the more critically injured were missing entire limbs. He moved quickly, assessing each soldier and separating the critically injured to be stabilized for transport to Sobrik’s hospital. Trauma packs were out of the question. He hadn’t seen one in weeks, leaving them to try and patch up torn arms with nothing but bandages and used kolto filtered from the tanks. Malavai was sure skimmed kolto did little more than inhibit infection, but considering their circumstances it was better than nothing.

Stims and various adrenals were plentiful on the battlefield. The Empire may not be overly concerned about a soldier’s recovery, but they were more than willing to hijack their central nervous system to bypass everything that should induce terror. Malavai kept a close eye on the hangar attendants as they tended to the overdosed soldiers. It was clear they weren’t medically trained but -to their credit- they didn’t wince at the sight of blood or other bodily fluids. No doubt they’d all done this before and would be called to do so again.

Doc observed the goings on with detached interest. It was easier to hate someone when their faces were hidden behind a visor or a helmet. It was easy to dehumanize an imperial trooper when they seemed little more than clockwork death machines, but here, in the middle of this erupted chaos, all he saw were men and women who had protected innocent civilians from a threat.

Some were screaming in pain, others seizing on their cots as the excess of injectable valor that coursed through their veins turned against them. The lucky ones would feel the chemical burn for weeks to come, the others would not live to see the morning. Biochemistry was a wonderful thing. The right combination of stimulants and could make heroes out of cowards. It eliminated the need for sleep, food, caution, reasoning, or mercy. In the right amounts it gave a soldier the edge they needed. The problem was that everyone with an pneumatic dispenser thought themselves an expert on the subject. Beyond the regulation stims and adrenals sold by the vendors, you could always find a quack that peddled custom blends most of which were addictive.

He didn’t blame the troops or the resistance fighters for their habit. Doc figured if he was forced to pick a side and join this pointless fight, he too would be driven to over-stim. Balmorra had a way of driving the most reasonable people insane. Deep down, they were all just pawns who had gotten caught up in politics. The Balmorrans didn’t ask to be invaded, but some hotshots on some planet millions of miles away decided that the Republic was going to give Balmorra to the Empire. Except of course, they didn’t. So the Imperials swooped in believing themselves in the right, while the Balmorrans raged because nobody bothered to ask what they wanted, and the Republic shrugged before deciding to sell weapons to the people they abandoned.

“Because who cares if a few impressionable kids get killed in the crossfire as long as they can inconvenience the Empire,” Doc muttered darkly.

The Republic didn’t care about Balmorra any more than the Empire did.  All they saw was a shiny toy to be fought over and captured. They didn’t care about the teenagers that had been rounded up at his makeshift hospital or the entire indigenous population that was all but destroying themselves by rebelling. Were it left to the Senate, they would have allowed any captured rebels to be executed and moved on to the next group of idiots willing to die for their cause. No point in wasting resources.

That was such a Frodrick thing to say.

Well he wasn’t Dr. Frodrick, Coruscant MD. He was Doc and Doc cared. No one else on this miserable planet seemed to have any humanity left to give so it was all up to him now. He’d get them out alive even if it killed him.

From where he was standing, things didn’t seem to be all sunshine and rainbows from the Imperial side either. With the constant destruction of infrastructure and lacking adequate resources, even a city like Sobrik was brought to its knees over something as simple as a colicoid swarm. He listened as the pained cries of the wounded echoed all around him.

“Another day in the muck,” he frowned as he saw Quinn darting back and forth issuing orders and correcting his aids. The cots soon filled up and they began laying the injured down atop tarps spread out on the floor.

He spotted a stormtrooper who had been quickly ushered in to the last remaining cot. Dark crimson streaks stained their white armor. Agonizing cries were muffled by a cracked helmet whose only use now was as a makeshift respirator. The medics quickly removed the mangled armor using metal cutters and exposed the gaping wounds beneath. The helmet came off in two pieces to reveal a bruised fair-skinned woman with light brown hair styled in a pixie cut and sporting a pink streak on her bangs.

Doc’s felt something cold wash over him and he stood up to grip the bars. He recognized that pink streak.

It was Lt. Leeral.

 _“Light red, my streak is light red,”_ she always corrected him.

From the looks of things she’d ended up getting the wrong end of a colicoid sickle. Leeral had always been decent, and could even be considered kind for an Imperial. She’d always minimized civilian casualties, always reigned in her people when they went too far, always slipped him a cup of the fancy officer’s tea, always blew him a kiss when they parted…

Doc’s grip tightened on the bars as he saw the ‘medics’ fumble and cause her to scream.

“STOP THAT! NUMB THE WOUND THEN PROD AT IT!” he yelled angrily as he saw the pallor of her skin and the glazed look in her dark brown eyes. Quinn arrived at the scene and began giving instructions as he ordered a scan and checked the dilation of her pupils.

“She has a concussion keep her awake,” he said as he began scrolling through the scan results.

“Sir, how are we supposed to do that without hurting her?”

“Talk to her,” Quinn said as though the man were being purposely obtuse.

“Right, so… ma’am… er… miss… how are you?”

“Oh for pity’s sake, here,” Quinn shoved the scanner’s report at his helper, “I want you to run to upstairs and bring me these items. Now.”

The stockier man took the scanner thankful to be given another assignment before rushing away. Quinn then knelt by Leeral’s cot and checked her pupils again before making a note in her medical report.

“What’s your name Lieutenant?” he asked as he unsealed a packet with pads soaked in skimmed kolto and a local anesthetic.

“L-Leeral sir.

“Lt. Leeral, where are you from?” he pressed as he began the slow process of cleaning and stabilizing her wounds before transport.

“Sir?”

“Where are you from Leeral?”

“Kaas City. Am I- am I going to die, sir?” she stammered as she gasped for breath. “I don’t want t’die... I don’t want t’die on Balmorra...”

Malavai paused as her words struck a chord. How many times had he whispered that same phrase himself? Her face reflected only raw terror and it made his stomach twist into a knot. Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand in his.

“You’re going to be fine, lieutenant. It looks like the bugs didn’t hit anything vital, but I need you to stay awake, do you understand?” he asked as he smoothed her matted hair away from her face and squeezed her hand. “Can you do that for me, Leeral?”

“I-I think so.”

“Good, now, tell me about Kaas City.”

Doc didn’t know what surprised him more: the fact that Quinn was a trained medic or the fact that he had an excellent bedside manner. Doc watched attentively as Leeral’s wounds were treated and, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying, he could have sworn he saw Leeral give Quinn a weak smile. Before long she had been bandaged and moved to a gurney ready to depart for Sobrik Hospital. Doc watched as Quinn effortlessly shifted his attention to the next critical patient pausing only to wash and sterilize his hands.

The man was a machine, moving from one bed to another with an ease that made Doc wonder how many stims Malavai had taken while he’d been locked in a box. Despite their mutual antagonism, he couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for the Imperial in light of the circumstances. But even Lt. Quinn’s efficiency was no match for the flood of wounded that assailed the makeshift medical station.

“Quinn! Lt. Quinn! I’m a doctor! Let me help!” he called out. At first Malavai appeared to ignore him but a few moments later he had approached the holding pen.

“What do you know about kolto-alternative treatments?” Quinn asked only just masking his irritation.

“Did rounds in the outer rim territories for years. I know every trick there is to know about patching people up without kolto,” Doc replied confidently. “You’ve been using the skimmed kolto all wrong, by the way. You’d reduce waste if you applied it to wounds after they’ve been stitched together by hand. Sterilize the wounds with ethanol, soak a cotton patch with it and then bandage the entire thing. The kolto doesn’t volatilize and you get the most out of the diluted healing effect.”

Malavai’s eyes narrowed for a moment as though scrutinizing the prisoner’s words with suspicion. Finally he made his decision.

“Take off the jacket,” Quinn ordered.

“Listen Mal, I don’t know how you Imperials go about doing things but I am a respectable man. You usually have to buy someone dinner before you start getting fresh,” Doc asked as though scandalous.

Quinn turned a brilliant shade of scarlet before sputtering a response.

“As though I would ever- The OFFICER’S jacket! You’re not an officer! Take it off and hand it over!”

Doc grinned shrugging off the jacket and tossing it through the bars at Malavai who looked absolutely mortified. Quinn walked over to a nearby crate and picked up a slave collar. He took a moment to program it before tossing it at Doc, who caught it in one hand.

“Put it on and lets get this over with.”

“Wow. You Imps are kinky,” Doc drawled. “Is this really necessary?”

“If you’re going to be aiding the medical team you will behave in a manner consistent with your profession. Is that understood, Doctor?” Quinn snapped. He’d only just unlocked the cage and already he regretted the decision. Doc on the other hand looked incredibly impressed with himself. Even with a slave collar on he looked every bit the cocky insufferable man that he was.

“Just Doc is fine, sweetheart,” he grinned. This time he dodged the fist that was aimed at his face but was completely blindsided by the knee that knocked the air out of him.

“Best behavior… understood, Lt. Quinn… sir...” Doc wheezed as he doubled over.

Malavai hid a pleased smile as he folded his recovered jacket over his arm and left Doc to catch his breath.

“I’m starting you off on the overdosed, don’t give me reason to shoot you,” Quinn called out without bothering to look back at him. Perhaps he would keep the infuriating man as a punching bag. He did have the knack for lifting Quinn’s spirits and taking his mind off stress.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you for stopping by and giving this fic a read! Woo! We're at the home stretch now can you feel it? Just one last installment to go before we cap off Malavai and Doc's adventures!
> 
> Did you like it? Did it make you smile? Did you enjoy the bit on 'Darth Juicy'? I hope so because I couldn't stop giggling when I wrote that.
> 
> As always feel free to hit me up on my tumblr (pineaberry), I usually post updates on my fics there a good 24 hours before AO3. There's also a tumblr exclusive SWTOR series there called "ESC" that I update every 50 followers.


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